It's been a rough week, mainly due to the unreasonable behavior of my child's father. Although he neither pays child support nor has any legal custody whatsoever, it has always been my policy to treat him with respect and to allow him to see the child whenever he wants to. I am being quite sincere when I say that I have treated the man amazingly well; better than he deserved, in fact.
Instead of gratitude, he regards me with utter disdain. I have never understood that. I am unaccustomed to being the target of anyone's hatred.
Threatening to "take me to court", he bullied me into letting him have the child this weekend, Friday through Sunday, and he is demanding the same every second weekend, plus every Wednesday night, until the child turns 18. I have been advised in the past, by the city's best domestic attorneys, to do everything I can to stay out of court because any father (short of a convicted murderer) will be perceived as a hero by the court if he asks to see his child. Yes, he'd have to start paying child support, but my sole concern is limiting my child's exposure to a man whom I consider a poor influence. Until now, the two had spent only a few hours per week together. I was OK with that.
I have an appointment set up with another lawyer this coming week. Perhaps court is the only way to go at this point.
Meanwhile, the father picked up my child at 5pm today (Friday). As I said goodbye to my little boy, I asked him to call me tonight and tomorrow night before he goes to bed. His father roared, "HE'S NOT CALLING YOU, AND YOU'RE NOT CALLING HIM! YOU'RE SICK!!!" I said that any mother would expect to speak on the phone to her young child away from home, and he bellowed,"YOU'RE WRONG!!! YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!"
Of course, as he sped off with my little son, I very seriously questioned whether I should have allowed the visit. The child has been safe with him in the past, and that's why I gave in. Once I speak to the lawyer about recent events, I'll know how to proceed from now on. But this weekend must be endured somehow.
At the suggestion of friend TA, who assured me by telephone that both Betty and son would survive this weekend, I took a "meditation walk" in the rose garden outside of my house. In other words, I tried not to march like a bat out of hell, but rather to stroll, like a peaceful, aware wanderer.
There were many people to be avoided- that was my initial goal. I wanted to be alone- quite a challenge on a pleasantly cool evening amongst the roses.
I happened upon a wedding rehearsal. Curious, I observed the participants. The people appeared calm, reverent and supportive. Why can't people just be that way all the time, I wondered? Tears clouded my vision.
Then I thought of my own history. I've never been married. What is it about me that has deemed marriage elusive? And what is it about me that attracts people like the child's father into my life?
I left the questions at the altar and continued on toward the casting pond. I passed a family: mother, tiny son and father. The father looked at me as if I were the most important person on the face of this earth, as he smiled and nodded at me. Again, tears erupted.
It reminded me of a story I had read about a young man who was deeply depressed. He jumped off a bridge to his death. At the site from which he had jumped, a note was found which he had written. It said, "I'm on my way to commit suicide because I feel so alone. But if anyone smiles at me during my walk to the bridge, I will not jump off."
Lest I alarm my readers, I am not suicidal. But I am awed by the stark contrast between my child's father's hatred of me and this stranger's display of unearned, unconditional love.
Then, as I meandered back home, I thought of the little dog who had so graced my life. This was the same route my child and I had followed with our Chihuahua the night our dog was killed by another dog in the park. I re-experienced in my mind our dog's complete and utter jubilant exuberance. Again, tears, as I thanked our departed dog for the consolation in absentia, and the reminder of what life can be.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
life in the suburbs
Whirling Betty's city (and its suburbs) will soon boast more people residing outside of its surrounding outerbelt than inside. This is disturbing on many levels.
Most obvious is the resulting destruction of nature. Nature is obliterated by man to make way for ugly little cul-de-sacs devoid of plantlife and wildlife. (But no doubt, those houses contain the coveted 2-story great rooms from which its inhabitants can gaze out the picture windows at the neighboring trophy houses.)
Nearly as obvious is the ruination of our ozone layer, since the people inhabiting these mini-mansions must drive far away to earn money to pay for them. Often these people opt for gas-guzzling SUV's, of course, which are an undeniable part of today's American Dream. (Wars, of course, must be fought over the oil needed to run these vehicles.)
And remarkably, these luxury suburbs are devoid of sidewalks. Walking is downright discouraged, in order to make way for the almighty automobile. Rising obesity is one symptom of this phenomenon. Not getting to know the neighbors is another.
Whirling Betty and Son live within the boundaries of the outerbelt. However, we live 8 miles from downtown, in an apparent suburb, judging from the glaring lack of sidewalks. Walking or bike riding is simply not safe here, because the car rules. A nearby vacant commercial building, which we were hoping would become a restaurant, was leased out to Auto Zone. The car rules, there's no doubt about it.
Five years ago, when my child was just entering preschool, we moved here from a downtown neighborhood. There, we had sidewalks, and we used 'em. I hardly ever fired up the Honda. I even walked to work. Pedestrians were expected and respected.
Why, oh why, did I leave the place I loved? I followed the herd of People With Kids to the "family-oriented" suburb we now live in. How are we better off? We can't walk anywhere without risking life, limb and lungs. Always confined to a vehicle, we don't know our neighbors. I even have to drive my kid to his school bus stop because walking these sidewalkless streets is absolutely out of the question.
According to a local moving company, the vast majority of moves here are to locations farther from downtown (often to outside of the outerbelt). Well, my goal is to buck that trend. As soon as I find the right house, we're moving back downtown.
Most obvious is the resulting destruction of nature. Nature is obliterated by man to make way for ugly little cul-de-sacs devoid of plantlife and wildlife. (But no doubt, those houses contain the coveted 2-story great rooms from which its inhabitants can gaze out the picture windows at the neighboring trophy houses.)
Nearly as obvious is the ruination of our ozone layer, since the people inhabiting these mini-mansions must drive far away to earn money to pay for them. Often these people opt for gas-guzzling SUV's, of course, which are an undeniable part of today's American Dream. (Wars, of course, must be fought over the oil needed to run these vehicles.)
And remarkably, these luxury suburbs are devoid of sidewalks. Walking is downright discouraged, in order to make way for the almighty automobile. Rising obesity is one symptom of this phenomenon. Not getting to know the neighbors is another.
Whirling Betty and Son live within the boundaries of the outerbelt. However, we live 8 miles from downtown, in an apparent suburb, judging from the glaring lack of sidewalks. Walking or bike riding is simply not safe here, because the car rules. A nearby vacant commercial building, which we were hoping would become a restaurant, was leased out to Auto Zone. The car rules, there's no doubt about it.
Five years ago, when my child was just entering preschool, we moved here from a downtown neighborhood. There, we had sidewalks, and we used 'em. I hardly ever fired up the Honda. I even walked to work. Pedestrians were expected and respected.
Why, oh why, did I leave the place I loved? I followed the herd of People With Kids to the "family-oriented" suburb we now live in. How are we better off? We can't walk anywhere without risking life, limb and lungs. Always confined to a vehicle, we don't know our neighbors. I even have to drive my kid to his school bus stop because walking these sidewalkless streets is absolutely out of the question.
According to a local moving company, the vast majority of moves here are to locations farther from downtown (often to outside of the outerbelt). Well, my goal is to buck that trend. As soon as I find the right house, we're moving back downtown.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
chico
The Chihuahua was particularly cute when I came home from work today. Ears pinned back, body curling with glee, tail vibrating, he slipped out the door, unable to wait for me to enter. Instead of hightailing it into the park the way he normally does, he stayed to shower me with greetings. Although I poke fun at this dog, I appreciate his cuddly, affectionate, always-available-for-comforting nature, and the way he gazes at me with adoration in his eyes. Whenever I pick him up, he relaxes like a rag doll, totally compliant, grateful for the attention.
After dinner, it was my idea to go for a walk in the park. For some odd reason, I wanted to leave the Chihuahua at home this time, but the child insisted on taking the dog as we usually did.
Maybe it was the angle of the sun, but something made the scene in the park magical, with the first rosebuds opening and the slightly crisp air still warmed by the setting sun. The Chihuahua was, as always, thrilled to be alive and with his people.
We walked and ran through the roses to the casting pond and back. Close to home, the frisky Chihuahua bucked and charged, freeing the end of his leash from the child's hand. Off he flew, toward the nearest dog.
Our Chihuahua is not like other Chihuahuas. Ours is loving, trusting, and fearless, totally. He never seemed to realize that his size was diminutive, or that some dogs lacking in sophistication might mistake him for a squirrel.
The ensuing events are a bit hazy to me, as if shock set in from the outset. I was aware of a dog brawl, and afterwards I heard my dog crying mightily. My child was bawling. I clutched the sides of my face in horror, unable to move or comprehend. The owner of the attacking dog tried to pick up my Chihuahua, but my dog snapped at him and staggered over to me, bleeding from the belly.
My neighbor drove me and my family (boy and Chihuahua) to the emergency animal hospital. A heroic effort was made to save his life, but our little chico died tonight.
So far, the aftermath has been unbearable. The house is filled with the toys he loved so much, which he was constantly presenting us with, hoping we'd play fetch. His Pooch Perch is stationed proudly at the window, where he kept vigilance until his people returned home. His little teacup of water awaits him. I can't bring myself to remove his things, which have become suddenly sacred.
In my mind's eye I see him proudly prancing about, doing his utmost to teach me all about the joie de vivre which was his specialty. We were lucky to have him, if only for 10 months. Thank you, chico.
After dinner, it was my idea to go for a walk in the park. For some odd reason, I wanted to leave the Chihuahua at home this time, but the child insisted on taking the dog as we usually did.
Maybe it was the angle of the sun, but something made the scene in the park magical, with the first rosebuds opening and the slightly crisp air still warmed by the setting sun. The Chihuahua was, as always, thrilled to be alive and with his people.
We walked and ran through the roses to the casting pond and back. Close to home, the frisky Chihuahua bucked and charged, freeing the end of his leash from the child's hand. Off he flew, toward the nearest dog.
Our Chihuahua is not like other Chihuahuas. Ours is loving, trusting, and fearless, totally. He never seemed to realize that his size was diminutive, or that some dogs lacking in sophistication might mistake him for a squirrel.
The ensuing events are a bit hazy to me, as if shock set in from the outset. I was aware of a dog brawl, and afterwards I heard my dog crying mightily. My child was bawling. I clutched the sides of my face in horror, unable to move or comprehend. The owner of the attacking dog tried to pick up my Chihuahua, but my dog snapped at him and staggered over to me, bleeding from the belly.
My neighbor drove me and my family (boy and Chihuahua) to the emergency animal hospital. A heroic effort was made to save his life, but our little chico died tonight.
So far, the aftermath has been unbearable. The house is filled with the toys he loved so much, which he was constantly presenting us with, hoping we'd play fetch. His Pooch Perch is stationed proudly at the window, where he kept vigilance until his people returned home. His little teacup of water awaits him. I can't bring myself to remove his things, which have become suddenly sacred.
In my mind's eye I see him proudly prancing about, doing his utmost to teach me all about the joie de vivre which was his specialty. We were lucky to have him, if only for 10 months. Thank you, chico.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Knight in Shining Armor
My diary writing resumed today after an inquiry from Shankari, who was curious as to whether I had burned my diaries yet. No, I haven't, largely because I seem to have a few more things to say in them before I'm ready for the bonfire.
Today my journal writing took an unexpected turn. Often I tend to dwell on the same issues, ad infinitum, but today I found myself focused, much to my surprise, on the boyfriend with whom I had been involved during my mother's illness.
M had referred to himself, sarcastically, as my "knight in shining armor". He deeply resented the many helpless women who seem to be looking for that magic man to save their lives. His past was littered with such women, and he hoped I wouldn't turn out to be yet another example.
Actually, I had always perceived my mother as my source of security. It's no wonder- she had resolved many of my problems for me, from financial to social to physical. For example, there was a man stalking me when I was a college student. After I told her about it over the phone, she appeared at my door several hours later, having traveled two hundred miles to tell this stalker a thing or two. Same thing happened when I told her I had been diagnosed with anemia. She showed up at my dorm room hours later wielding a side of beef.
Now I see that, facing the impending loss of my source of security (she had pancreatic cancer), I did unconsciously hope to transfer the title to M. After I flew back to my hometown for her funeral, M apparently decided to don his suit of armor. He showed up at my mother's funeral unexpectedly, having flown halfway across the country to be at my side.
Afterwards, he presented me with a bill for his air fare. (After all, it was my mother who had died, and he had flown there for my benefit, even though I had not asked him to come.) I never realized that the damsels had to pay their knights!
He had been planning to quit his engineering job to move to Montana, in a heroic effort to "follow his heart." He did pack up his belongings and head out west a few months after the funeral. I was heartbroken, but not for long. He called when he got there, with a proposal. If I'd give him money, I could go to Montana and stay with him for a few months. (It seems he didn't have enough money to make it there after all.) I sent the money, took a leave of absence from work, and headed out West.
That was only the beginning. The job he eventually found didn't pay very well, and I used my savings to pay his bills during my prolonged visit.
Today my journal writing took an unexpected turn. Often I tend to dwell on the same issues, ad infinitum, but today I found myself focused, much to my surprise, on the boyfriend with whom I had been involved during my mother's illness.
M had referred to himself, sarcastically, as my "knight in shining armor". He deeply resented the many helpless women who seem to be looking for that magic man to save their lives. His past was littered with such women, and he hoped I wouldn't turn out to be yet another example.
Actually, I had always perceived my mother as my source of security. It's no wonder- she had resolved many of my problems for me, from financial to social to physical. For example, there was a man stalking me when I was a college student. After I told her about it over the phone, she appeared at my door several hours later, having traveled two hundred miles to tell this stalker a thing or two. Same thing happened when I told her I had been diagnosed with anemia. She showed up at my dorm room hours later wielding a side of beef.
Now I see that, facing the impending loss of my source of security (she had pancreatic cancer), I did unconsciously hope to transfer the title to M. After I flew back to my hometown for her funeral, M apparently decided to don his suit of armor. He showed up at my mother's funeral unexpectedly, having flown halfway across the country to be at my side.
Afterwards, he presented me with a bill for his air fare. (After all, it was my mother who had died, and he had flown there for my benefit, even though I had not asked him to come.) I never realized that the damsels had to pay their knights!
He had been planning to quit his engineering job to move to Montana, in a heroic effort to "follow his heart." He did pack up his belongings and head out west a few months after the funeral. I was heartbroken, but not for long. He called when he got there, with a proposal. If I'd give him money, I could go to Montana and stay with him for a few months. (It seems he didn't have enough money to make it there after all.) I sent the money, took a leave of absence from work, and headed out West.
That was only the beginning. The job he eventually found didn't pay very well, and I used my savings to pay his bills during my prolonged visit.
M and I remain long distance friends. He almost died in a motorcycle crash recently, and I'm glad he didn't. His deep spiritual and philosophical ideas are forever welcome in my life. However, today's journal writing exposed the truth: by financially enabling M to live out his dream, I had been his knight in shining armor.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
What's your theme today?
The other day when I was attempting to turn left off a main drag, I was in an unusually jovial mood, apparently. Instead of being offended by having to wait until an approaching Speedy Gonzales passed, driving at least twice the posted speed limit, I chuckled to myself that he was a man on a mission. After pausing briefly to speculate as to what it might be, it dawned on me that each of us has a daily theme or goal, whether or not we're aware of it.
Lately, my mission has been to make it through the day- to get from point A (May 19) to point B (May 20). That's it. The theme? Survival.
OK, is that the way I really want to live my life? (Granted, I'm usually driving well within the speed limit given such a mundane mission. I pose no threat to society from behind the wheel!)
How do Joseph Campbell's bliss followers go about their days? Do they groan and grumble when the alarm goes off in the morning?
Today the child and I had a mission, at least in the morning. I awakened very early, without an alarm, and noticed with surprise that the child was still sound asleep. On the days when school is his resented agenda, he is outrageously difficult to remove from bed, but today is Saturday! So I whispered the words "yard sale" and he sat bolt upright in bed, smiling from ear to ear.
Less than five minutes later we were in the car, on our way to an annual neighborhood-wide yard sale in a very hip part of town. Treasures would surely abound, and I drove with a sense of purpose, barely lawful.
Now we're back home after a successful shopping spree (I got shoe organizers for $.50 total and he got a pair of really nice brand new speakers for his iPod for $2.00) and now I am searching for a mission for the remainder of the day.
My neighbor just came over, bursting at the seams with news. He had warded off two juvenile delinquents last night who ran through my property, upsetting the trash can, yard waste containers and everything else in their path. He actually shot at them with a BB gun.
Since I must not have seemed impressed enough with that story, he went on to tell me that once he had fatally shot a squirrel in the head with the same BB gun. This particular man, I must admit, does have an agenda, one which remains constant from one day to the next. He is a God-fearing, gun-wielding man who believes in controlling his environment to the point of killing wildlife. He is forever mowing grass, hacking branches, spraying insecticides, fertilizing, clipping, weed-wacking, you name it. He is never at rest.
So I guess I do have a mission: to live and let live. I would never kill a squirrel; I hand feed them peanuts. I will continue to appall people like my neighbor with my overgrown jungle-like landscaping which provides habitat for the very animals he wants to shoot. And every so often I'll throw in a yard sale for extra kick.
Lately, my mission has been to make it through the day- to get from point A (May 19) to point B (May 20). That's it. The theme? Survival.
OK, is that the way I really want to live my life? (Granted, I'm usually driving well within the speed limit given such a mundane mission. I pose no threat to society from behind the wheel!)
How do Joseph Campbell's bliss followers go about their days? Do they groan and grumble when the alarm goes off in the morning?
Today the child and I had a mission, at least in the morning. I awakened very early, without an alarm, and noticed with surprise that the child was still sound asleep. On the days when school is his resented agenda, he is outrageously difficult to remove from bed, but today is Saturday! So I whispered the words "yard sale" and he sat bolt upright in bed, smiling from ear to ear.
Less than five minutes later we were in the car, on our way to an annual neighborhood-wide yard sale in a very hip part of town. Treasures would surely abound, and I drove with a sense of purpose, barely lawful.
Now we're back home after a successful shopping spree (I got shoe organizers for $.50 total and he got a pair of really nice brand new speakers for his iPod for $2.00) and now I am searching for a mission for the remainder of the day.
My neighbor just came over, bursting at the seams with news. He had warded off two juvenile delinquents last night who ran through my property, upsetting the trash can, yard waste containers and everything else in their path. He actually shot at them with a BB gun.
Since I must not have seemed impressed enough with that story, he went on to tell me that once he had fatally shot a squirrel in the head with the same BB gun. This particular man, I must admit, does have an agenda, one which remains constant from one day to the next. He is a God-fearing, gun-wielding man who believes in controlling his environment to the point of killing wildlife. He is forever mowing grass, hacking branches, spraying insecticides, fertilizing, clipping, weed-wacking, you name it. He is never at rest.
So I guess I do have a mission: to live and let live. I would never kill a squirrel; I hand feed them peanuts. I will continue to appall people like my neighbor with my overgrown jungle-like landscaping which provides habitat for the very animals he wants to shoot. And every so often I'll throw in a yard sale for extra kick.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Mothers' Day
It doesn't take much thought for me to come up with an answer to the un-asked question: What do you want for Mothers' Day, Betty?
I'd like a pack of tiny, busy elves to enter my house during the night before to set things right. I want them to get rid of everything, mine or the child's, which is unneccessary or not contributing to our well-being. Forget the 3 categories (discard, give away, hold for 6 months); I just want them to clear out the house, then clean and organize what's left.
These elves would even take it upon themselves to re-arrange the furniture in my impossible-to-make sense-of living room. Feng Shui principles would be honored impeccably. They would even tear up the wall-to-wall carpeting which I so despise and install beautiful new hardwood floors.
They wouldn't neglect the outdoors, either. They'd plant the flowers I'd bought, prune the jungle which is starting to strangle my house, and clean and repair the gutters. They'd sweep the patio, fill the birdfeeders and set up the fountain.
The atmosphere would be magically transformed from chaos into peace. The elves would leave me a breakfast of scrambled tofu and Starbucks organic Serena blend before scurrying out. (The child would be too awed to eat.)
I'd probably spend the rest of the day reading and strolling through the rose garden while the child happily entertained himself or interacted with me in our inspiring new environment. The Chihuahua would be so blown away that he'd dare not soil his new digs. (The elves had somehow set him straight, too.)
This is my hope and fantasy for all mothers- that we each receive a generous dose of whatever it is we need on May 14. Happy Mothers' Day.
I'd like a pack of tiny, busy elves to enter my house during the night before to set things right. I want them to get rid of everything, mine or the child's, which is unneccessary or not contributing to our well-being. Forget the 3 categories (discard, give away, hold for 6 months); I just want them to clear out the house, then clean and organize what's left.
These elves would even take it upon themselves to re-arrange the furniture in my impossible-to-make sense-of living room. Feng Shui principles would be honored impeccably. They would even tear up the wall-to-wall carpeting which I so despise and install beautiful new hardwood floors.
They wouldn't neglect the outdoors, either. They'd plant the flowers I'd bought, prune the jungle which is starting to strangle my house, and clean and repair the gutters. They'd sweep the patio, fill the birdfeeders and set up the fountain.
The atmosphere would be magically transformed from chaos into peace. The elves would leave me a breakfast of scrambled tofu and Starbucks organic Serena blend before scurrying out. (The child would be too awed to eat.)
I'd probably spend the rest of the day reading and strolling through the rose garden while the child happily entertained himself or interacted with me in our inspiring new environment. The Chihuahua would be so blown away that he'd dare not soil his new digs. (The elves had somehow set him straight, too.)
This is my hope and fantasy for all mothers- that we each receive a generous dose of whatever it is we need on May 14. Happy Mothers' Day.
Monday, May 08, 2006
to keep or not to keep
I have what I consider to be a major dilemma. Since the age of 12, I have kept diaries, or journals as they are more commonly called, off and on. I would never part with the ones from adolescence. Those diaries were made for children- they even have tiny locks on them. The content features nothing objectionable; I was very reserved, having been raised by a gaggle of very tight-assed closet Irish Catholics.
During early adulthood the writing became more tortured. College offered me a more diverse view of the world. The one I attended happened to be particularly wild and crazy. And competitive. I became more insecure and unstable, and wrote about it fairly candidly, sober or otherwise, thinking that somehow my writing would prove to be therapeutic. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't.
I once paid a dear price for my diary-keeping habit when a boyfriend, in a moment of compromised integrity, snuck a peek. He thereby learned of my continuing friendship with a celebrity who had been in town. The aftermath of his discovery was particularly diary-worthy.
I derive pleasure from reading past diaries, as a voyeur of my own past. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of growth when I realize that some past life-or-death issue would be nothing now.
Unmarried, I suffered greatly over the decision of whether or not to have my child. I wrote profusely and openly.
Once the child was born, the future of my diaries came into question. Now there exists a human being who would undoubtedly be affected by my words, some of which debated his birth.
Now when I write, I am cautious, again the stiffled adolescent, now that my child can read. As always, I insist on writing my diaries on paper, the old-fashioned way.
I guess I've answered my question. I have no choice- the diaries must go. But first, today I'm going to indulge in a writing frenzy, laying it all out, in no uncertain terms, no limits, no fears of exposure.
You're all invited to a bonfire at Betty's tonight.
During early adulthood the writing became more tortured. College offered me a more diverse view of the world. The one I attended happened to be particularly wild and crazy. And competitive. I became more insecure and unstable, and wrote about it fairly candidly, sober or otherwise, thinking that somehow my writing would prove to be therapeutic. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't.
I once paid a dear price for my diary-keeping habit when a boyfriend, in a moment of compromised integrity, snuck a peek. He thereby learned of my continuing friendship with a celebrity who had been in town. The aftermath of his discovery was particularly diary-worthy.
I derive pleasure from reading past diaries, as a voyeur of my own past. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of growth when I realize that some past life-or-death issue would be nothing now.
Unmarried, I suffered greatly over the decision of whether or not to have my child. I wrote profusely and openly.
Once the child was born, the future of my diaries came into question. Now there exists a human being who would undoubtedly be affected by my words, some of which debated his birth.
Now when I write, I am cautious, again the stiffled adolescent, now that my child can read. As always, I insist on writing my diaries on paper, the old-fashioned way.
I guess I've answered my question. I have no choice- the diaries must go. But first, today I'm going to indulge in a writing frenzy, laying it all out, in no uncertain terms, no limits, no fears of exposure.
You're all invited to a bonfire at Betty's tonight.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Betty the Rebel
First, I thank anyone who is reading this. I have been neglecting my blog and have undoubtedly (and deservedly) lost the small following I used to have. So, if anyone actually reads this, thank you.
Today, while attempting to sort through the rubble in my living room I came across one of my many diaries, written a few months ago in a dire attempt to figure myself out.
Now I know why my housekeeping is so outrageously substandard. I spent the rest of my "sorting" time reading the diary with great interest. The house is still a wreck, but by golly, I'm armed with more self-analysis that you can shake a stick at.
In fact, the house in shambles was pretty much explained by the diary. You see, the house I grew up in, 39 Burbank, looked exactly right. The grass was cut, always; the bushes were shaped to perfection; the sidewalk was swept or snowblown depending upon the season; the gutters were clear; the roof always looked newly laid; even the siding was power washed regularly. There was always one new car parked neatly in the garage and another, equally showy and recently washed, in the driveway.
Even inside, everything was in its place. You'd never know that a child lived there- no toy was visible; no item was out of place. Even the tassels on the living room rug were carefully straightened with a clothespin so that they lined up perfectly.
But there were secrets swept under that rug. My father was cheating on my mother. At age 8 I knew about it, and my father had tried to strangle me when he suspected that I knew. He continued to beat me on a daily basis. My grandmother, a devout Irish Catholic, had divorced her husband who was sleeping with the woman next door. My older brother was well on his way into a lifelong battle with alcohol and drug addiction. My teenage sister was pregnant before high school graduation.
Appearances, even aural ones, were critical. One time, when I was a toddler, I laid on the floor crying, wanting to be taken to the park. I was severely reprimanded because "one of the neighbors had heard the crying." All inhabitants of 39 Burbank were prohibited from emitting sounds audible to the neighbors, and were advised to exercise extreme caution when venturing out of the house; the neighbors would likely be watching.
Little wonder that my house today is disheveled. And, mind you, I'll gladly tell my life story, in full detail, to anyone who'll listen.
Today, while attempting to sort through the rubble in my living room I came across one of my many diaries, written a few months ago in a dire attempt to figure myself out.
Now I know why my housekeeping is so outrageously substandard. I spent the rest of my "sorting" time reading the diary with great interest. The house is still a wreck, but by golly, I'm armed with more self-analysis that you can shake a stick at.
In fact, the house in shambles was pretty much explained by the diary. You see, the house I grew up in, 39 Burbank, looked exactly right. The grass was cut, always; the bushes were shaped to perfection; the sidewalk was swept or snowblown depending upon the season; the gutters were clear; the roof always looked newly laid; even the siding was power washed regularly. There was always one new car parked neatly in the garage and another, equally showy and recently washed, in the driveway.
Even inside, everything was in its place. You'd never know that a child lived there- no toy was visible; no item was out of place. Even the tassels on the living room rug were carefully straightened with a clothespin so that they lined up perfectly.
But there were secrets swept under that rug. My father was cheating on my mother. At age 8 I knew about it, and my father had tried to strangle me when he suspected that I knew. He continued to beat me on a daily basis. My grandmother, a devout Irish Catholic, had divorced her husband who was sleeping with the woman next door. My older brother was well on his way into a lifelong battle with alcohol and drug addiction. My teenage sister was pregnant before high school graduation.
Appearances, even aural ones, were critical. One time, when I was a toddler, I laid on the floor crying, wanting to be taken to the park. I was severely reprimanded because "one of the neighbors had heard the crying." All inhabitants of 39 Burbank were prohibited from emitting sounds audible to the neighbors, and were advised to exercise extreme caution when venturing out of the house; the neighbors would likely be watching.
Little wonder that my house today is disheveled. And, mind you, I'll gladly tell my life story, in full detail, to anyone who'll listen.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Invention Convention
Today's challenge was unexpected, actually beginning last night with my child's tearful complaints of a toothache. I thought I was imagining that his cheek was swollen. I tried to distract him with a few rounds of Boggle Junior before putting him to bed, but he did not sleep. Each time I looked at him, his cheek looked bigger. We stayed up most of the night , trying remedy after remedy (mouthwash, salt water, ice, vitamin C, echinacia, CoQ10) to no avail.
Finally 8am arrived, when I knew I could reach our dentist ,who had filled a cavity in the child's tooth last week. By this time, said child resembled a human chipmunk with an entire winter's supply stashed in one cheek. The dentist's receptionist said to bring him in right away.
What timing! This morning was the official judging for the "Invention Convention" at the child's school. My child was one of the youngest participants and had spent a lot of time and energy on his invention, a "Pooch Perch" which enables our Chihuahua to see out of our windows.
The visit to the dentist took forever, followed by a trip to the drugstore for penicillin and Children's Motrin. When we finally arrived at school, the judging had been completed, and they had skipped my child's entry because he hadn't been there to answer questions.
I found the director of the convention, and seeing how upset my child was, she rounded up some judges and had them judge while I stood by and watched. The child responded well to all questions at first, aptly displaying his enthusiasm for his subject. After about fifteen minutes he started to fade a bit, and finally gave out when she asked if he planned to market his product. After a painful, sleepless night followed by the stress of the dentist's visit, he had reached his limit.
"Uhhh......I dunno........"
These were not the words of a budding scientist. And this particular judge happened to be the personification of the "B" word.... She regarded him sternly and repeated the query: "You DON'T KNOW if you want to market this?!" she uttered, incredulous.
".......noooooo....."
We were sunk, I knew it.
A better mother than I would have jumped right in at that point, explaining the events of the past twelve hours. The problem was, I too was sleep-deprived and not mentally acute. The explanation didn't even enter my mind until I was leaving the school with tears in my eyes.
I don't know whether my child passed on to the next round or not. His fading toward the end of his interview definitely didn't help. How sad it is, I thought, that we rely to such an extent upon outside approval. This is one of the first times I've realized that I need approval not only for myself, but for my child as well. And I therefore teach him to need it.
My wish is to become so secure that I am not hurt or threatened when an insult, real or imagined, is hurled; and that other people's judgments no longer determine my worth. Then I can teach that instead.
Finally 8am arrived, when I knew I could reach our dentist ,who had filled a cavity in the child's tooth last week. By this time, said child resembled a human chipmunk with an entire winter's supply stashed in one cheek. The dentist's receptionist said to bring him in right away.
What timing! This morning was the official judging for the "Invention Convention" at the child's school. My child was one of the youngest participants and had spent a lot of time and energy on his invention, a "Pooch Perch" which enables our Chihuahua to see out of our windows.
The visit to the dentist took forever, followed by a trip to the drugstore for penicillin and Children's Motrin. When we finally arrived at school, the judging had been completed, and they had skipped my child's entry because he hadn't been there to answer questions.
I found the director of the convention, and seeing how upset my child was, she rounded up some judges and had them judge while I stood by and watched. The child responded well to all questions at first, aptly displaying his enthusiasm for his subject. After about fifteen minutes he started to fade a bit, and finally gave out when she asked if he planned to market his product. After a painful, sleepless night followed by the stress of the dentist's visit, he had reached his limit.
"Uhhh......I dunno........"
These were not the words of a budding scientist. And this particular judge happened to be the personification of the "B" word.... She regarded him sternly and repeated the query: "You DON'T KNOW if you want to market this?!" she uttered, incredulous.
".......noooooo....."
We were sunk, I knew it.
A better mother than I would have jumped right in at that point, explaining the events of the past twelve hours. The problem was, I too was sleep-deprived and not mentally acute. The explanation didn't even enter my mind until I was leaving the school with tears in my eyes.
I don't know whether my child passed on to the next round or not. His fading toward the end of his interview definitely didn't help. How sad it is, I thought, that we rely to such an extent upon outside approval. This is one of the first times I've realized that I need approval not only for myself, but for my child as well. And I therefore teach him to need it.
My wish is to become so secure that I am not hurt or threatened when an insult, real or imagined, is hurled; and that other people's judgments no longer determine my worth. Then I can teach that instead.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Betty and Charlie
An unfortunate mishap occurred this morning on my way to the child's school bus stop. It's a mile from our house, therefore requiring vehicular transportation. (Back in the olden days, young Betty used to walk, not to a bus stop, but to the actual SCHOOL. Childhood obesity was, coincidentally, nearly nonexistent back then.)
The accident happened before I was even out of my garage. Although my subcompact Honda Civic is one of the tiniest cars around, I seem to have trouble maneuvering it early in the morning, especially around obstacles like garage door frames.
The side mirror on the passenger side shattered into a million pieces, along with my already minimal supply of serenity. Too stunned to react, I silently drove to the bus stop and parked what was left of my car.
"Mama......Are you. .........CRYING?"
"NO! I'm sobbing uncontrollably! Can't you SEE that?!"
It took a few minutes for me to realize that it wasn't so much the wrecking of my car and subsequent hassle and expense of dealing with it, but it was more about the jarred memory of Betty and Charlie.
Exactly three years ago I had experienced the same problem maneuvering my car out of the garage, with the same broken mirror consequence. At that particular time I was already an emotional wreck, having just been "ditched" by my weekday babysitter, left high and dry, with no notice, without childcare. The rejection by that sitter, coupled with the very tangible childcare problem dumped in my lap had been unbearable. Then, on top of all that, I had wrecked my car's side mirror in a senseless act of incompetence.
Enter Betty and Charlie. They were the grandparents of my child's preschoolmate, Anthony. I knew they were unusual- they were the oldest people, by far, to ever set foot in that preschool. I came to find out that they had adopted Anthony as part of a complex, soap-opera-like family drama. (Anthony had been born to Betty and Charlie's irresponsible alcoholic son's girlfriend.)
Instead of treating Anthony like an unwanted mistake, they sought nothing but the best for him, as demonstrated by their choice of preschool (the most highly-rated in the city). Betty and Charlie socialized with the young parents of Anthony's classmates, fitting in unbelievably.
On the day my sitter "ditched" us, I hauled my defeated self into that preschool, fighting tears, and passed out letters to each parent in my child's class, explaining my situation and begging for immediate help.
When my phone rang that evening, it was Betty and Charlie. They would take my child, covering all of my working hours, until the end of the school year. They had discussed this with the head teacher of the preschool class, who had wholeheartedly approved. My life changed dramatically with that phone call. Hopeless desperation morphed into salvation; rejection into acceptance.
During the subsequent months, Betty and Charlie took us in as family. The day after that phone call, Charlie took my child and Anthony to the butterfly exhibit at the local conservatory, just for fun, before our first scheduled babysitting, and took them to lunch. He wouldn't even let me give him money to cover the cost! It was as if my son finally had a grandparent. It symbolized our acceptance into the family.
A few weeks later, my parked car was slammed into by a van. I was lucky that it happened while Betty and Charlie were in my life. They set me up with a highly-regarded body shop, whose owner they knew, and helped me deal with the insurance hassle. They even loaned me one of their cars while mine was being fixed!
And yes, when I hit my garage door frame three years ago, Charlie went to a junkyard, found a replacement, and installed it. (The Honda repair shop would have charged $500 for its replacement!)
The only sad thing about our experience with Betty and Charlie was that they set a time limit. They gave us their all, but being mature, wise people, they knew they'd have to set a boundary. They have an extensive biological family here in town who, as you might imagine, are constantly needing Betty and Charlie's help.
But what I took away from that experience was a newfound belief in the benevolence of life. I may not be constantly surrounded by people waiting to help out, but most of the time I don't need any help. And when I truly DID need it, Betty and Charlie were there, in spades.
The accident happened before I was even out of my garage. Although my subcompact Honda Civic is one of the tiniest cars around, I seem to have trouble maneuvering it early in the morning, especially around obstacles like garage door frames.
The side mirror on the passenger side shattered into a million pieces, along with my already minimal supply of serenity. Too stunned to react, I silently drove to the bus stop and parked what was left of my car.
"Mama......Are you. .........CRYING?"
"NO! I'm sobbing uncontrollably! Can't you SEE that?!"
It took a few minutes for me to realize that it wasn't so much the wrecking of my car and subsequent hassle and expense of dealing with it, but it was more about the jarred memory of Betty and Charlie.
Exactly three years ago I had experienced the same problem maneuvering my car out of the garage, with the same broken mirror consequence. At that particular time I was already an emotional wreck, having just been "ditched" by my weekday babysitter, left high and dry, with no notice, without childcare. The rejection by that sitter, coupled with the very tangible childcare problem dumped in my lap had been unbearable. Then, on top of all that, I had wrecked my car's side mirror in a senseless act of incompetence.
Enter Betty and Charlie. They were the grandparents of my child's preschoolmate, Anthony. I knew they were unusual- they were the oldest people, by far, to ever set foot in that preschool. I came to find out that they had adopted Anthony as part of a complex, soap-opera-like family drama. (Anthony had been born to Betty and Charlie's irresponsible alcoholic son's girlfriend.)
Instead of treating Anthony like an unwanted mistake, they sought nothing but the best for him, as demonstrated by their choice of preschool (the most highly-rated in the city). Betty and Charlie socialized with the young parents of Anthony's classmates, fitting in unbelievably.
On the day my sitter "ditched" us, I hauled my defeated self into that preschool, fighting tears, and passed out letters to each parent in my child's class, explaining my situation and begging for immediate help.
When my phone rang that evening, it was Betty and Charlie. They would take my child, covering all of my working hours, until the end of the school year. They had discussed this with the head teacher of the preschool class, who had wholeheartedly approved. My life changed dramatically with that phone call. Hopeless desperation morphed into salvation; rejection into acceptance.
During the subsequent months, Betty and Charlie took us in as family. The day after that phone call, Charlie took my child and Anthony to the butterfly exhibit at the local conservatory, just for fun, before our first scheduled babysitting, and took them to lunch. He wouldn't even let me give him money to cover the cost! It was as if my son finally had a grandparent. It symbolized our acceptance into the family.
A few weeks later, my parked car was slammed into by a van. I was lucky that it happened while Betty and Charlie were in my life. They set me up with a highly-regarded body shop, whose owner they knew, and helped me deal with the insurance hassle. They even loaned me one of their cars while mine was being fixed!
And yes, when I hit my garage door frame three years ago, Charlie went to a junkyard, found a replacement, and installed it. (The Honda repair shop would have charged $500 for its replacement!)
The only sad thing about our experience with Betty and Charlie was that they set a time limit. They gave us their all, but being mature, wise people, they knew they'd have to set a boundary. They have an extensive biological family here in town who, as you might imagine, are constantly needing Betty and Charlie's help.
But what I took away from that experience was a newfound belief in the benevolence of life. I may not be constantly surrounded by people waiting to help out, but most of the time I don't need any help. And when I truly DID need it, Betty and Charlie were there, in spades.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
VS
The month of March stands out a bit for me. It is the month in which VS performed her most important functions: birth, marriage and death.
Not many people know anything about her story- even I don't know that much. Since it bothers me to think that any life could possibly slip by unnoticed, I feel compelled to tell what I know.
Rather than attempt to calculate the year of her birth, I will honor her lifelong dedication to its concealment. Suffice it to say that she was born in a bygone era, the only child of a fairly poor family. Her mother had immigrated from Ireland at age 19. Her father was a handsome, quiet, talented man who never did figure out how to make a living. Her Irish mother earned the family money by hoofing it to a camera factory before dawn each morning.
VS used to tell of a cabin, on a tranquil lake in upstate NY, that her father had built. He even custom-built the kitchen to accomodate his tiny Irish wife, whose factory job funded his craft. This cabin was a mecca for people wanting to escape the city, and VS spoke of her resentment of all the people taking advantage of her parents' generosity. VS felt cheated.
VS entertained herself as a child and teen by going to movies. Apparently she was quite addicted, and even desired a career in film or dancing. She must have looked the part, since she was voted "most beautiful girl" by her high school senior class.
She met her future husband, PeeWee, in marching band. Years later she confided that she should have married Dick Packer, who turned out to be not only successful, but loyal to the woman who did choose him.
VS was still a teen when she married PeeWee. He performed a brief stint in the Navy, where he narrowly escaped death when a cable on an aircraft carrier snapped. His buddies were not as fortunate, and he surely was affected by the tragedy.
Back home, the couple bought a little house from PeeWee's stepfather, and they never moved from that house. VS gave birth to a girl, then a boy a year later. VS's mother, who lived nearby, helped with the housework and children. (VS's father had left his wife to marry the woman next door.) PeeWee ended up with a decent job at IBM. Both VS and PeeWee were smart, but neither came from educated families, and college was never considered.
Twelve years later, VS suddenly became pregnant again. VS bragged that she only gained 12 pounds during that pregnancy, and people didn't even know she was pregnant. Was she unhappy about it? We'll never know.
That baby had to be incubated for a while, but did survive. VS's Irish mother took a liking to the baby and gave her her first bath. VS decided, when that child entered school, to get a job. It had been many years since she had worked outside of the home.
She landed a job in a hospital, as a ward clerk, on the 3pm to 11pm shift. The child, named Betty, was not happy about this, since it meant she'd rarely see her mother and she'd be stuck with PeeWee. Betty had discovered by listening in on a phone conversation that PeeWee was cheating on her beautiful mother. Betty kept the secret, but despised PeeWee.
VS loved working at the hospital even though, during her first few years, she had a sadistic boss. On her days off she'd indulge in her favorite delights: shopping, museum-hopping and attending NYC Ballet performances.
Long before its popularity, VS was a health food devotee. (Betty can vividly recall the foul-tasting tofu hot dogs she was forced to ingest during health food's infancy.) VS kept herself in shape with aerobics and lots of walking, and never strayed from her high school weight of 115 pounds.
Eventually, though, she had to acknowledge that her home life was in trouble due to PeeWee's extramarital activities. They separated briefly, but she did not thrive on her own. When PeeWee came running back, having realized that his girlfriend was a nutcase, VS took him in, along with his promise that he'd change his ways.
Well, you can guess the outcome. PeeWee never changed, and VS suffered greatly, torturing herself by spying on PeeWee's clandestine adventures, sometimes even confronting the "other woman".
Then one day VS was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She died eleven months later, in her month of March, days before she would have had to endure another celebration of the anniversary of her marriage, and shortly before she'd have had to reluctantly add one more year to her age.
Not many people know anything about her story- even I don't know that much. Since it bothers me to think that any life could possibly slip by unnoticed, I feel compelled to tell what I know.
Rather than attempt to calculate the year of her birth, I will honor her lifelong dedication to its concealment. Suffice it to say that she was born in a bygone era, the only child of a fairly poor family. Her mother had immigrated from Ireland at age 19. Her father was a handsome, quiet, talented man who never did figure out how to make a living. Her Irish mother earned the family money by hoofing it to a camera factory before dawn each morning.
VS used to tell of a cabin, on a tranquil lake in upstate NY, that her father had built. He even custom-built the kitchen to accomodate his tiny Irish wife, whose factory job funded his craft. This cabin was a mecca for people wanting to escape the city, and VS spoke of her resentment of all the people taking advantage of her parents' generosity. VS felt cheated.
VS entertained herself as a child and teen by going to movies. Apparently she was quite addicted, and even desired a career in film or dancing. She must have looked the part, since she was voted "most beautiful girl" by her high school senior class.
She met her future husband, PeeWee, in marching band. Years later she confided that she should have married Dick Packer, who turned out to be not only successful, but loyal to the woman who did choose him.
VS was still a teen when she married PeeWee. He performed a brief stint in the Navy, where he narrowly escaped death when a cable on an aircraft carrier snapped. His buddies were not as fortunate, and he surely was affected by the tragedy.
Back home, the couple bought a little house from PeeWee's stepfather, and they never moved from that house. VS gave birth to a girl, then a boy a year later. VS's mother, who lived nearby, helped with the housework and children. (VS's father had left his wife to marry the woman next door.) PeeWee ended up with a decent job at IBM. Both VS and PeeWee were smart, but neither came from educated families, and college was never considered.
Twelve years later, VS suddenly became pregnant again. VS bragged that she only gained 12 pounds during that pregnancy, and people didn't even know she was pregnant. Was she unhappy about it? We'll never know.
That baby had to be incubated for a while, but did survive. VS's Irish mother took a liking to the baby and gave her her first bath. VS decided, when that child entered school, to get a job. It had been many years since she had worked outside of the home.
She landed a job in a hospital, as a ward clerk, on the 3pm to 11pm shift. The child, named Betty, was not happy about this, since it meant she'd rarely see her mother and she'd be stuck with PeeWee. Betty had discovered by listening in on a phone conversation that PeeWee was cheating on her beautiful mother. Betty kept the secret, but despised PeeWee.
VS loved working at the hospital even though, during her first few years, she had a sadistic boss. On her days off she'd indulge in her favorite delights: shopping, museum-hopping and attending NYC Ballet performances.
Long before its popularity, VS was a health food devotee. (Betty can vividly recall the foul-tasting tofu hot dogs she was forced to ingest during health food's infancy.) VS kept herself in shape with aerobics and lots of walking, and never strayed from her high school weight of 115 pounds.
Eventually, though, she had to acknowledge that her home life was in trouble due to PeeWee's extramarital activities. They separated briefly, but she did not thrive on her own. When PeeWee came running back, having realized that his girlfriend was a nutcase, VS took him in, along with his promise that he'd change his ways.
Well, you can guess the outcome. PeeWee never changed, and VS suffered greatly, torturing herself by spying on PeeWee's clandestine adventures, sometimes even confronting the "other woman".
Then one day VS was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She died eleven months later, in her month of March, days before she would have had to endure another celebration of the anniversary of her marriage, and shortly before she'd have had to reluctantly add one more year to her age.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Betty knows Best
Yesterday I witnessed a scene which brought back some not-so-distant memories. The scene involved a terrified 4-year-old boy who was being forced to face a large audience. The quivering boy did everything he could to hide within the folds of his father's suit jacket.
With great interest, I watched the reaction of those around me, expecting people to shake their heads and roll their eyes at such "papa's boy" behavior. Why? Because that's the reaction I've received, ever since my child was born, every time "mama's boy" wanted to hide within my folds.
Instead, people seemed mildly amused, somewhat sympathetic, and basically non-judgmental!!!! What the.......?
So what I've read is really true! Society truly does judge mothers (especially single mothers!) much more harshly than fathers.
A vivid nightmarish memory has pestered me since yesterday's demonstration of that phenomenon. My child was 3, and being the conscientious zealot that I tend to be, I had researched all available services for single parents and found a little-known program offered by the local school district. It involved free monthly home visits from early childhood educators. I was happy for any support in my parenting that I could possibly find.
During one visit, when the educator rang my doorbell, my 3-year-old began crying for me to pick him up. (Mama's boy behavior, indeed.) I had been practicing attachment parenting, believing that its effects would serve him well throughout his life. He was accustomed to being held, and I thought nothing of his desire for me to pick him up before opening the door to let the educator in.
Well, let me tell you, this educator was HORRIFIED that I would "allow a 3-year-old to control me" in such a manner! She entered my house and raked me over the coals for the entire hour, and demanded that I call her suggested child psychologist AT ONCE!
I did, and the psychologist had already been warned about me. She insisted that I hire a sitter for my son (even though he was already with sitters while I worked fulltime) and show up by myself. I followed her orders, and arrived for my appointment filled with trepidation. She proceeded to rip me to shreds, insisting that by allowing my son to "ruin" my life, I was ruining his! She flat out demanded that I "lock (yes, lock) my child in a room by himself" whenever he asked me to pick him up! I sat there and listened, stunned, for 50 minutes, then feebly stood up, (over)paid her, and said, "Your beliefs differ vastly from mine. I won't be coming back."
For the next 6 months, every time my doorbell rang I expected Children's Services, fearing that those professional witches had found a way to "blow the whistle" on me and my twisted parenting. How could I have been so fiercely attacked by other women, mothers themselves, whom I had called upon for support?
Somehow I suffered through that very difficult period, learning to get by with no support. A flash of clarity appeared as a fleeting gift one day, when I was given the message "This, too, shall pass". I chuckled at the thought of a 16-year-old boy crying for me to pick him up when the doorbell rings!
With great interest, I watched the reaction of those around me, expecting people to shake their heads and roll their eyes at such "papa's boy" behavior. Why? Because that's the reaction I've received, ever since my child was born, every time "mama's boy" wanted to hide within my folds.
Instead, people seemed mildly amused, somewhat sympathetic, and basically non-judgmental!!!! What the.......?
So what I've read is really true! Society truly does judge mothers (especially single mothers!) much more harshly than fathers.
A vivid nightmarish memory has pestered me since yesterday's demonstration of that phenomenon. My child was 3, and being the conscientious zealot that I tend to be, I had researched all available services for single parents and found a little-known program offered by the local school district. It involved free monthly home visits from early childhood educators. I was happy for any support in my parenting that I could possibly find.
During one visit, when the educator rang my doorbell, my 3-year-old began crying for me to pick him up. (Mama's boy behavior, indeed.) I had been practicing attachment parenting, believing that its effects would serve him well throughout his life. He was accustomed to being held, and I thought nothing of his desire for me to pick him up before opening the door to let the educator in.
Well, let me tell you, this educator was HORRIFIED that I would "allow a 3-year-old to control me" in such a manner! She entered my house and raked me over the coals for the entire hour, and demanded that I call her suggested child psychologist AT ONCE!
I did, and the psychologist had already been warned about me. She insisted that I hire a sitter for my son (even though he was already with sitters while I worked fulltime) and show up by myself. I followed her orders, and arrived for my appointment filled with trepidation. She proceeded to rip me to shreds, insisting that by allowing my son to "ruin" my life, I was ruining his! She flat out demanded that I "lock (yes, lock) my child in a room by himself" whenever he asked me to pick him up! I sat there and listened, stunned, for 50 minutes, then feebly stood up, (over)paid her, and said, "Your beliefs differ vastly from mine. I won't be coming back."
For the next 6 months, every time my doorbell rang I expected Children's Services, fearing that those professional witches had found a way to "blow the whistle" on me and my twisted parenting. How could I have been so fiercely attacked by other women, mothers themselves, whom I had called upon for support?
Somehow I suffered through that very difficult period, learning to get by with no support. A flash of clarity appeared as a fleeting gift one day, when I was given the message "This, too, shall pass". I chuckled at the thought of a 16-year-old boy crying for me to pick him up when the doorbell rings!
Friday, February 24, 2006
growing up
Once again I have been reminded of a strange phenomenon which could, quite possibly, apply only to myself. But I'm not sure.
It's about being "adult." My late mother was an adult, the whole time I knew her. My father was, too, as were all of the grown-up relatives. They looked like adults and behaved like adults and thought like adults. They were responsible and serious and old.
Now, in certain ways, I am adult. I have the right age, for example. If age is the sole criterion, then I qualify, in spades.
When my best friend from college "partied up a storm" with me a few years ago, we revelled in the fact that we seemed so much more youthful than most of our agemates. She informed me in no uncertain terms that it was because we didn't have kids. We both swore up and down that we'd NEVER have 'em.
She stuck to her oath; I am now a single parent of a 2nd grader. According to my friend's theory, I ought to be a mature adult now, probably extra mature because I'm a single parent, right?
Well, wrong. I did the math and figured out how old I was when my mother was the age I am now. I remember my perception of her then. She was an adult, bigtime. She knew how to think and behave. If she had any immature leanings, she kept them well repressed. She was serious, she was sensible, she was disciplined, she was regular. She was never out of control. She was adult.
Let's start with appearance. I look disheveled. She looked prim and proper, even on days off. Her hair was neatly cut in a matronly style which was professionally fussed with once a week at the beauty parlor.
A female adult is expected to maintain a certain level of household order. My mother did, but she cheated. She had her own mother cleaning that house on a daily basis. I have the opposite: I have a male child and a Chihuahua wreaking havoc on a daily basis. The house is a constant wreck.
My mother, the adult, prepared dinner, served at 5pm sharp every day. It was a sensible meal, damnit, even if it was often nausea-inspiring. It featured meat, two vegetables, and desert if you earned it. You can guess at Betty's cooking habits. I'll whip up the amaranth if the child starts clamoring for food. If he won't eat it, he's welcome to forage. I like to sit by the window, reading, eating dry cereal out of the box. My mother's probably rolling.
But yesterday I noticed my thoughts (something I rarely do). My mind resembled that of an adolescent who is just starting to figure out how to fit into society. I was thinking, "Boy, she doesn't like me. She probably thinks I'm a loser, not worthy of her attention. I wonder what they said about me after I left the room? I wonder why she doesn't like me? Did I do a bad thing by leaving early, without a reasonable explanation? Will they shun me now? Where do I really fit in? Anywhere?"
My mother got over all that when she was in high school, or middle school, even. By the time she was my age, she was self-assured, knowing her place, accepting it, and playing her role obediently.
When I examine my mind, it truthfully doesn't seem different from when I was a teen. I am just as unsure now of where I fit in socially. Speculating, I can only guess that it's a result of living a fairly isolated life, devoid of family, away from home turf, relying on whichever friends will tolerate me at the time.
It's about being "adult." My late mother was an adult, the whole time I knew her. My father was, too, as were all of the grown-up relatives. They looked like adults and behaved like adults and thought like adults. They were responsible and serious and old.
Now, in certain ways, I am adult. I have the right age, for example. If age is the sole criterion, then I qualify, in spades.
When my best friend from college "partied up a storm" with me a few years ago, we revelled in the fact that we seemed so much more youthful than most of our agemates. She informed me in no uncertain terms that it was because we didn't have kids. We both swore up and down that we'd NEVER have 'em.
She stuck to her oath; I am now a single parent of a 2nd grader. According to my friend's theory, I ought to be a mature adult now, probably extra mature because I'm a single parent, right?
Well, wrong. I did the math and figured out how old I was when my mother was the age I am now. I remember my perception of her then. She was an adult, bigtime. She knew how to think and behave. If she had any immature leanings, she kept them well repressed. She was serious, she was sensible, she was disciplined, she was regular. She was never out of control. She was adult.
Let's start with appearance. I look disheveled. She looked prim and proper, even on days off. Her hair was neatly cut in a matronly style which was professionally fussed with once a week at the beauty parlor.
A female adult is expected to maintain a certain level of household order. My mother did, but she cheated. She had her own mother cleaning that house on a daily basis. I have the opposite: I have a male child and a Chihuahua wreaking havoc on a daily basis. The house is a constant wreck.
My mother, the adult, prepared dinner, served at 5pm sharp every day. It was a sensible meal, damnit, even if it was often nausea-inspiring. It featured meat, two vegetables, and desert if you earned it. You can guess at Betty's cooking habits. I'll whip up the amaranth if the child starts clamoring for food. If he won't eat it, he's welcome to forage. I like to sit by the window, reading, eating dry cereal out of the box. My mother's probably rolling.
But yesterday I noticed my thoughts (something I rarely do). My mind resembled that of an adolescent who is just starting to figure out how to fit into society. I was thinking, "Boy, she doesn't like me. She probably thinks I'm a loser, not worthy of her attention. I wonder what they said about me after I left the room? I wonder why she doesn't like me? Did I do a bad thing by leaving early, without a reasonable explanation? Will they shun me now? Where do I really fit in? Anywhere?"
My mother got over all that when she was in high school, or middle school, even. By the time she was my age, she was self-assured, knowing her place, accepting it, and playing her role obediently.
When I examine my mind, it truthfully doesn't seem different from when I was a teen. I am just as unsure now of where I fit in socially. Speculating, I can only guess that it's a result of living a fairly isolated life, devoid of family, away from home turf, relying on whichever friends will tolerate me at the time.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Past
My reaction to today's unexpected encounter is baffling. I'd love to figure out why reminders of my past always seem to inspire doldrums.
She did look familiar to me, but I couldn't imagine why. Then she came over and introduced herself as an acquaintance from a summer camp during high school. She had been shy; I had been shy. Two such people rarely befriend. I was able to recall her sweet disposition even though I hadn't known her well.
The sadness that overcame me was not about her. It was about missing my old life. Back then I had a mother. I had a best friend, Sandy. I had a family, far from perfect but family nonetheless. I lived where I had grown up, where I knew a bunch of people and even had relatives. My family was not strong, not close, but it was better than the nothing I have now.
I had big dreams. The sky was the limit. I knew I could become whatever, whomever, I wanted. Within the safety net, real or imagined, of my family, friends, school and community, I was free to dream, to choose and to thrive.
Going away to college was a rude awakening. Real life, away from support people, hit hard. I cried over the phone, asking my mother to come and get me. Wisely, she didn't. I stuck it out.
Then I got a job in the city I live in now. It was even farther from home, but it's difficult to get a job in my field. Scared, I hung around with anyone who'd have me, almost. It was bearable because my mother still visited often enough. She came here when I got sick, or when my laundry was piled up beyond belief, or when things got tough, really tough, like when my boyfriend committed suicide.
She was diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas and lived only eleven more months. To try to survive without her, I latched onto a new boyfriend, which proved to be a bad choice indeed. It's good that we eventually broke up.
I had friends, so I thought. But when my child entered the scene, those friends, all single and childless, fell by the wayside. This is a common phenomenon- single people don't unusually gravitate toward the "family-oriented."
At this point, I have no place to fit in. The parents I have met at my child's preschool, then elementary school, are all married, and they steer clear of single mothers.
Even so, most of the time I'm perfectly capable of playing whichever role is called for in our two-person drama: I'm usually the mother, sometimes the father, often the grandparent or the sibling. Once in a blue moon, my child actually attempts to take on an adult roll, when he can see that I'm totally spent. I guess there's no real reason for me to feel sorry for myself, since we're apparently functional. But, I see now why the memory jolt brings tears. People thrive better when surrounded by and supported by others. Hillary's right. It takes a village.
She did look familiar to me, but I couldn't imagine why. Then she came over and introduced herself as an acquaintance from a summer camp during high school. She had been shy; I had been shy. Two such people rarely befriend. I was able to recall her sweet disposition even though I hadn't known her well.
The sadness that overcame me was not about her. It was about missing my old life. Back then I had a mother. I had a best friend, Sandy. I had a family, far from perfect but family nonetheless. I lived where I had grown up, where I knew a bunch of people and even had relatives. My family was not strong, not close, but it was better than the nothing I have now.
I had big dreams. The sky was the limit. I knew I could become whatever, whomever, I wanted. Within the safety net, real or imagined, of my family, friends, school and community, I was free to dream, to choose and to thrive.
Going away to college was a rude awakening. Real life, away from support people, hit hard. I cried over the phone, asking my mother to come and get me. Wisely, she didn't. I stuck it out.
Then I got a job in the city I live in now. It was even farther from home, but it's difficult to get a job in my field. Scared, I hung around with anyone who'd have me, almost. It was bearable because my mother still visited often enough. She came here when I got sick, or when my laundry was piled up beyond belief, or when things got tough, really tough, like when my boyfriend committed suicide.
She was diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas and lived only eleven more months. To try to survive without her, I latched onto a new boyfriend, which proved to be a bad choice indeed. It's good that we eventually broke up.
I had friends, so I thought. But when my child entered the scene, those friends, all single and childless, fell by the wayside. This is a common phenomenon- single people don't unusually gravitate toward the "family-oriented."
At this point, I have no place to fit in. The parents I have met at my child's preschool, then elementary school, are all married, and they steer clear of single mothers.
Even so, most of the time I'm perfectly capable of playing whichever role is called for in our two-person drama: I'm usually the mother, sometimes the father, often the grandparent or the sibling. Once in a blue moon, my child actually attempts to take on an adult roll, when he can see that I'm totally spent. I guess there's no real reason for me to feel sorry for myself, since we're apparently functional. But, I see now why the memory jolt brings tears. People thrive better when surrounded by and supported by others. Hillary's right. It takes a village.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Betty's Annual Pre-Valentine's Day Time Travel
It was this date on a Saturday the year I was 11. It was pre-Valentine's Day, a time of great hope. I had always liked boys; I had been engaged to be married at age 5. But this was the year I began to REALLY like boys.
This was a huge secret, of course. It would be many years before I could summon the courage to admit to having any interest in boys. Is this common? Or is it related to being brought up by repressed Irish Catholic women who furtively whispered dire warnings in my ear?
Winters were harsh in the state of New York. The early February thaw that year was highly unusual. My pre-adolescent imagination told me that the break in the weather was a sign: Valentine's Day would be perfect. This is what would surely happen: Pat Lane, the love of my life, would profess his undying love for me. Then we'd have to quit school and get married.
My best friend Barbara and I shuffled through the slush- it looked a lot more cool than tiptoeing about, searching for dry spots. I can still see the melting snow, complete with its dirty black spots from having been around so long. Spring was in the air, undeniably. The sun broke through the clouds, signaling the end of a lengthy all-winter cloud cover. We unbuttoned our ever-so-hip jackets purchased last fall from the Army and Navy store.
Barbara had recently informed me that in bed, boys stick their you-know-what into the girl. I didn't believe it, not for one minute. Kissing, though, was plenty appealing, and holding hands, and hugging....
Our eyes squinted, unaccustomed to sunshine. Our ears perked to the birds' mating calls. We were eating heart-shaped Sweet Tarts candy, just purchased downtown. Then, in the distance, I heard a sound that stopped my heart. Could it be.....?
Gasp....... It was Pat Lane, playing a game of football with a group of boys in a parking lot up the street! Pat Lane had no idea that I lived for him. Barbara was equally clueless. This budding sexuality taking over my life was known only to myself.
I turned into a bundle of nerves. I wanted him to see us, but I was scared beyond reason. Was my hair a mess? Did I look OK? Did I look cool? Were my lips totally concealing the braces on my teeth? I didn't want anything to interfere with what was going to happen on Valentine's Day.....
Trembling, I forged onward with Barbara. We boldly marched, feigning disinterest, right past the boys, who, of course, totally ignored us. At age 11, back in the days when parents did not overschedule their kids, there was nothing more important than this. So we did it again, slowly making our way around the block and past the football game again, afraid to arouse their suspicion yet unwilling to pass up the opportunity to be near them. I suspected that she liked one of the boys in that group, but she, too, knew the rules. You don't actually ADMIT to liking a boy. Not at age 11, with spring in the air and Valentine's Day around the corner, when the sky's the limit.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
life lesson
As I jogged up the driveway I was greeted by his eager, expectant face in the window. He had been concerned as to my well being, and his eyes showed visible relief at the sight of me. His ears flattened as our eyes locked. Eight months old, he has just developed the ability to catapult himself off the floor onto the table so that he can view the outdoors. This requires Herculean effort and is reserved for critical situations like my absence.
Flattered by his worry, I decided reward him. I opened the front door and allowed him to bolt. Not bothering with the stairs, he launched himself off the top step and sailed to the ground, spreading legs as wings, landing with the grace of a four-legged gymnast. Without skipping a beat he raced into the park and initiated a full-fledged investigation of the grounds.
Joyous and free, ecstacy in motion, he pranced and danced among the rose bushes and trees, stopping to sniff at whatever he fancied. Then he'd take off, full speed ahead, basking in the power of his perfectly functioning skeletal-muscular system, running like blazes because he could. He was proud to be himself; in fact, he was elated to be alive, clearly thrilled by the wondrous world in which he romped. The squirrels escaped into their trees just in time, but it was all about the chase after all.
Marvelling at this virtuosic display of joie de vivre, I thanked my teacher with a hunk of Braunschweiger.
Flattered by his worry, I decided reward him. I opened the front door and allowed him to bolt. Not bothering with the stairs, he launched himself off the top step and sailed to the ground, spreading legs as wings, landing with the grace of a four-legged gymnast. Without skipping a beat he raced into the park and initiated a full-fledged investigation of the grounds.
Joyous and free, ecstacy in motion, he pranced and danced among the rose bushes and trees, stopping to sniff at whatever he fancied. Then he'd take off, full speed ahead, basking in the power of his perfectly functioning skeletal-muscular system, running like blazes because he could. He was proud to be himself; in fact, he was elated to be alive, clearly thrilled by the wondrous world in which he romped. The squirrels escaped into their trees just in time, but it was all about the chase after all.
Marvelling at this virtuosic display of joie de vivre, I thanked my teacher with a hunk of Braunschweiger.
Monday, January 16, 2006
shopping with betty
Shopping has never been my forte. Online shopping, my usual method, is repugnant enough, but the brick and mortar variety actually nauseates me after the first 15-20 minutes. Yet somehow I managed to give birth to a male shopper.
Every time I hear him croon, in his best sing-song," Oh, mama, I feel like doing something special with you today..." I know I'm in trouble. Big trouble. "Something special", to this alien of mine, means shopping.
He did inherit the stubbornness gene from me. We lock horns for a while, he pouts, he wins, we shop.
If you want to be a shopper, you pretty much have to follow the herd. We followed the herd to shoppers' paradise. We walked. He drooled at iPods and asked for Cinabonns. We walked. I watched.
The place was bustling with apparently happy, moneyed people who were out to improve their lives, or at least their possession tally, on this day. I was impressed that the traffic actually STOPPED at intersections to allow the many pedestrians to cross leisurely. It was highly unusual to see so many people out walking. So that's what sidewalks are for.....interesting.
What's wrong with this picture? Well, all of those PEDESTRIANS had driven vehicles, some of monstrous SUV proportions, to this shopping mecca. This thriving pedestrian "neighborhood" is devoid of housing. Not one living soul is able to walk to this desination. It exists in a suburb, far from downtown. This shopping center and one in another suburb have seemingly conspired to ruin this city's downtown, which until recently was itself a shopping destination.
I must have been a city planner in a past life. I am inordinately troubled by this phenomenon. I know there's a better way. My Serbian friend tells me his family led a very happy, car-free life. Carefree and car-free. Vehicles pollute, vehicles kill, vehicles maim, vehicles reduce our level of fitness, and vehicles have caused the elimination of those glorious streetcar systems which graced our cities many years ago.
We drove away from today's shopping experience along with hundreds of other vehicles. Why did we all seem to be leaving at the same time? The number of cars was staggering. I shuddered as I realized the odds of at least one of these many drivers making a mistake, especially as our world goes more and more high tech. The driver next to me could have been watching one of those video iPods my child had been drooling over. My tiny subcompact didn't stand a chance against one of those looming, imposing behemouths.
I panicked, gripped the steering wheel for dear life, and pressed the gas pedal, dispersing my exhaust into our precious air. It just seems so wrong.
Every time I hear him croon, in his best sing-song," Oh, mama, I feel like doing something special with you today..." I know I'm in trouble. Big trouble. "Something special", to this alien of mine, means shopping.
He did inherit the stubbornness gene from me. We lock horns for a while, he pouts, he wins, we shop.
If you want to be a shopper, you pretty much have to follow the herd. We followed the herd to shoppers' paradise. We walked. He drooled at iPods and asked for Cinabonns. We walked. I watched.
The place was bustling with apparently happy, moneyed people who were out to improve their lives, or at least their possession tally, on this day. I was impressed that the traffic actually STOPPED at intersections to allow the many pedestrians to cross leisurely. It was highly unusual to see so many people out walking. So that's what sidewalks are for.....interesting.
What's wrong with this picture? Well, all of those PEDESTRIANS had driven vehicles, some of monstrous SUV proportions, to this shopping mecca. This thriving pedestrian "neighborhood" is devoid of housing. Not one living soul is able to walk to this desination. It exists in a suburb, far from downtown. This shopping center and one in another suburb have seemingly conspired to ruin this city's downtown, which until recently was itself a shopping destination.
I must have been a city planner in a past life. I am inordinately troubled by this phenomenon. I know there's a better way. My Serbian friend tells me his family led a very happy, car-free life. Carefree and car-free. Vehicles pollute, vehicles kill, vehicles maim, vehicles reduce our level of fitness, and vehicles have caused the elimination of those glorious streetcar systems which graced our cities many years ago.
We drove away from today's shopping experience along with hundreds of other vehicles. Why did we all seem to be leaving at the same time? The number of cars was staggering. I shuddered as I realized the odds of at least one of these many drivers making a mistake, especially as our world goes more and more high tech. The driver next to me could have been watching one of those video iPods my child had been drooling over. My tiny subcompact didn't stand a chance against one of those looming, imposing behemouths.
I panicked, gripped the steering wheel for dear life, and pressed the gas pedal, dispersing my exhaust into our precious air. It just seems so wrong.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
a whirling question
It has been brought to my attention that I don't know a thing about time management, also known as "setting priorities". One quick glance around my house is all you'd need to become convinced.
It's been said that nobody ever laid on his/her deathbed and bemoaned the fact that he/she hadn't spent more time at the office. But here's what I need to know: did anyone, just before meeting one's Maker, ever regret poor housekeeping?
This is a true concern of mine. I don't know how important housekeeping is, if at all. I have heard convincing arguments both ways.
More than one upstanding citizen has assured me that "the housekeeping can wait. It'll still be there when your child grows up, and you can take care of it then."
Is it true that I'm allowed to let it go for eleven more years? Can these people be serious? Should I not fear condemnation by the Board of Health, or arrest for child endangerment? (My child, incidentally, has become highy adept at leaping from one clearing of floor space to another, skillfully avoiding toppling my stacks of papers, books, magazines and dirtying my piles of laundry. I should think that this unusual ability could serve him well. At the very least, he has attained a lean, muscular appearance unlike that of many of his classmates.)
Then there are those who express horror at my housekeeping. One ex-boyfriend on a recent visit from Montana suggested that I drop everything else, take a leave of absence (unpaid of course) from work, and get my everloving shit together.
What's a woman to do? If I did take a leave of absence, I can see it now: I'd be sitting around surfing,reading and thinking, sipping Starbucks, having a great old time. As my dear friend TA puts it, I'm somebody who "needs a lot of down time". Even given all the time in the world, I'd still be far behind in my housekeeping, because it just is not a high priority in my life.
Today, for example, I could conceivably have cleaned all day. But this morning, while the child was occupied, I tried to catch up on reading my favorite blogs, including The Daily Blog with Kelly Bell. Kelley described, in one of her recent posts, an incredible childhood experience in the woods in which she saved an owl from a group of attacking birds, and the owl found a way to very clearly thank her. Inspired, I decided I had to take my child for a hike in the woods. The frigid, blustery air just added to the adventure. We didn't save any owls, but I bet my child is going to remember today's invigorating hike for years. It was time well-spent, in betty's book.
Many spiritual masters espouse cleaning house, in both the literal and figurative sense. I'm better at the figurative. Yes, I'd love to have an immaculate, uncluttered house, but I seem to lack the wherewithal to bring it about. I lack the necessary motivation to prioritize it and the skills required to pull it off in a timely fashion.
If physical housekeeping is deserving of a higher priority than I am currently assigning it, I truly want to know.
It's been said that nobody ever laid on his/her deathbed and bemoaned the fact that he/she hadn't spent more time at the office. But here's what I need to know: did anyone, just before meeting one's Maker, ever regret poor housekeeping?
This is a true concern of mine. I don't know how important housekeeping is, if at all. I have heard convincing arguments both ways.
More than one upstanding citizen has assured me that "the housekeeping can wait. It'll still be there when your child grows up, and you can take care of it then."
Is it true that I'm allowed to let it go for eleven more years? Can these people be serious? Should I not fear condemnation by the Board of Health, or arrest for child endangerment? (My child, incidentally, has become highy adept at leaping from one clearing of floor space to another, skillfully avoiding toppling my stacks of papers, books, magazines and dirtying my piles of laundry. I should think that this unusual ability could serve him well. At the very least, he has attained a lean, muscular appearance unlike that of many of his classmates.)
Then there are those who express horror at my housekeeping. One ex-boyfriend on a recent visit from Montana suggested that I drop everything else, take a leave of absence (unpaid of course) from work, and get my everloving shit together.
What's a woman to do? If I did take a leave of absence, I can see it now: I'd be sitting around surfing,reading and thinking, sipping Starbucks, having a great old time. As my dear friend TA puts it, I'm somebody who "needs a lot of down time". Even given all the time in the world, I'd still be far behind in my housekeeping, because it just is not a high priority in my life.
Today, for example, I could conceivably have cleaned all day. But this morning, while the child was occupied, I tried to catch up on reading my favorite blogs, including The Daily Blog with Kelly Bell. Kelley described, in one of her recent posts, an incredible childhood experience in the woods in which she saved an owl from a group of attacking birds, and the owl found a way to very clearly thank her. Inspired, I decided I had to take my child for a hike in the woods. The frigid, blustery air just added to the adventure. We didn't save any owls, but I bet my child is going to remember today's invigorating hike for years. It was time well-spent, in betty's book.
Many spiritual masters espouse cleaning house, in both the literal and figurative sense. I'm better at the figurative. Yes, I'd love to have an immaculate, uncluttered house, but I seem to lack the wherewithal to bring it about. I lack the necessary motivation to prioritize it and the skills required to pull it off in a timely fashion.
If physical housekeeping is deserving of a higher priority than I am currently assigning it, I truly want to know.
Monday, January 09, 2006
cooking with betty
Yes, we're nine days into the new year, but I'm just getting started on my annual attempt to get my act together. I usually start some sort of dramatic new regimen each January 1. Last year it was a raw food diet (very time intensive, especially considering you don't actually cook) coupled with synchronized aerobic kung fu, chanting group meditation and parent/child hatha yoga classes, and I was supposed to speed clean my house during any remaining time each day. Somehow I forgot to schedule in time to go to work, and the resulting chaos put the kibosh on last year's perfect lifestyle plan.
That particular regimen lasted a total of 15 hours, and the rest of 2005 was basically a free-for-all during which I simply attempted to feed, clothe and school the (resistant) child while keeping myself (barely) functional and employable.
This year I'll be REASONABLE, a non-specialty of whirlingbetty. I got off to a good start at that by basically ignoring January 1st altogether. I treated it just like any other day. I didn't empty my refrigerator or cupboards, I didn't call 1-800-GOTJUNK, I didn't turn myself over to any TV evangelists, I didn't join any new athletic facilities, I didn't sign myself up for the Peace Corps or any extreme makeovers, I didn't enroll in any training program for a new career. I just sort of hung out, ignoring the oh-so-significant date.
I felt guilty. Finally, by yesterday, January 8, I couldn't stand it any longer. I HAD to at least appear to attempt to overhaul my situation. The year is already one week gone, so obviously any diet or exercise resolution is out of the question. (It wouldn't be fair for the rest of you to have an entire week's head start!)
So I hauled out my spiritual books. I own an impressive library of them because, by golly, if I can't have my act together, then at least I want you all to know that I've tried. I stayed up most of the night skimming through several different paths to enlightenment.
One concept caught my eye. As whirlingbetty, I often feel bombarded by too much information, too much technology, too many options, too many possibilities. I am immobilized by the whirlwind of choices, baffled by decisions.
Authors Esther and Jerry Hicks in Ask and it is Given address the issue of overwhelment. They suggest that the reader imagine being a chef in a well-stocked kitchen. You have a recipe, you know what ingredients you need, and you put ONLY THOSE into your pie. The other ingredients stocking your shelves need neither be banished from your kitchen nor thrown into your pie. It is not necessary to be overwhelmed by the number of ingredients present in the kitchen. Use what you need and leave the rest.
To me, this was earth-shattering. I laughed, of course, while admitting to myself that it really is this simple. This morning I decided what I wanted to cook today, and selected my ingredients: jogging, blogging, reading, working, eating amaranth and veggies. I encountered a couple of unplanned ingredients: an elderly neighbor called for help (I said yes- it enhanced my pie)) and a very negative friend called and wanted to scheme (I said no- it would wreck my pie).
Maybe I'm on to something, eh? The whirlingbetty pie is still in the oven, but the aroma is mighty convincing.
That particular regimen lasted a total of 15 hours, and the rest of 2005 was basically a free-for-all during which I simply attempted to feed, clothe and school the (resistant) child while keeping myself (barely) functional and employable.
This year I'll be REASONABLE, a non-specialty of whirlingbetty. I got off to a good start at that by basically ignoring January 1st altogether. I treated it just like any other day. I didn't empty my refrigerator or cupboards, I didn't call 1-800-GOTJUNK, I didn't turn myself over to any TV evangelists, I didn't join any new athletic facilities, I didn't sign myself up for the Peace Corps or any extreme makeovers, I didn't enroll in any training program for a new career. I just sort of hung out, ignoring the oh-so-significant date.
I felt guilty. Finally, by yesterday, January 8, I couldn't stand it any longer. I HAD to at least appear to attempt to overhaul my situation. The year is already one week gone, so obviously any diet or exercise resolution is out of the question. (It wouldn't be fair for the rest of you to have an entire week's head start!)
So I hauled out my spiritual books. I own an impressive library of them because, by golly, if I can't have my act together, then at least I want you all to know that I've tried. I stayed up most of the night skimming through several different paths to enlightenment.
One concept caught my eye. As whirlingbetty, I often feel bombarded by too much information, too much technology, too many options, too many possibilities. I am immobilized by the whirlwind of choices, baffled by decisions.
Authors Esther and Jerry Hicks in Ask and it is Given address the issue of overwhelment. They suggest that the reader imagine being a chef in a well-stocked kitchen. You have a recipe, you know what ingredients you need, and you put ONLY THOSE into your pie. The other ingredients stocking your shelves need neither be banished from your kitchen nor thrown into your pie. It is not necessary to be overwhelmed by the number of ingredients present in the kitchen. Use what you need and leave the rest.
To me, this was earth-shattering. I laughed, of course, while admitting to myself that it really is this simple. This morning I decided what I wanted to cook today, and selected my ingredients: jogging, blogging, reading, working, eating amaranth and veggies. I encountered a couple of unplanned ingredients: an elderly neighbor called for help (I said yes- it enhanced my pie)) and a very negative friend called and wanted to scheme (I said no- it would wreck my pie).
Maybe I'm on to something, eh? The whirlingbetty pie is still in the oven, but the aroma is mighty convincing.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
rejection
Oh, we've all experienced it, usually from a lover, potential or actual, and sometimes from a desired employer. But since I have become a mother, I have experienced a whole new type of REJECTION.
Is it about the single parent stigma? Or am I simply a lousy mother who deserves to be shunned lest I adversely influence other people's children?
This issue has come to the forefront as I now attempt to plan my child's birthday party, scheduled for Sunday. Why do people blatantly refuse to RSVP? This is the type of party which requires a precise head count. It's at the hockey arena where the local hockey team holds games. I have to pay a set amount for each party-goer, and the number of party-goers (10 in my case) had to be determined in advance. So, in theory, if someone can't come, I could/should find a replacement.
What's really bothering me?, you might ask. Well, it's one particular mother who has been blowing me/us off bigtime. Her son, H, and mine became BEST friends in preschool. The two are a lot alike, and their friendship was enviable.
After preschool I did everything I could to maintain the friendship. I paid H's family top dollar to babysit during some of my work hours. H had younger brothers, and my kid isn't used to siblings. I tried to explain to H's mother that I had no way of teaching my kid to get along with little siblings because we don't have any. I politely gave her permission to do/say whatever she had to. Instead, she showed us the gate.
She's a stay-at-home mother who is homeschooling her kids. After she told us no more babysitting, I still drove to their house whenever I had time to pick up H for playdates.
Before long she put the kibosh on that. She kept putting us off, until finally on the date she had said H could come over, she emailed me saying her homeschooling schedule was just too filled- H couldn't come over to our house after all. That was last summer. I left her alone after that.
But my child doesn't know about all this. He only knows that H is a dear friend whom he hasn't seen in a long time. He wants H invited to his party.
I email H's mother, sheepishly, because i have been banished from their Family. i ask for permission to mail her Son an invitation, saying i will respectfully follow Her wishes if She wants to sever ties.
That was a week ago. She never responded, a dramatic passive-aggressive stab to the jugular.
Yes, i am making the mistake of giving Her power. Part of my problem is that in the past, when i thought She was my friend, i confided in her how hurt i was when other Families had rejected us. (Yes, it's happened before. It's a pattern.)
Why do People do this? What is it about me and my son which They deem inferior, unworthy? Is it the lack of a Man?
It's easy to say that the solution is for me to develop thicker skin and healthy self-esteem which prevails even during adversity. But that doesn't address the problem of a tragically lost friendship. Again. The rejection is not simply of the whirlingbetty and son diad- it is of beautiful, innocent childhood alliances.
Is it about the single parent stigma? Or am I simply a lousy mother who deserves to be shunned lest I adversely influence other people's children?
This issue has come to the forefront as I now attempt to plan my child's birthday party, scheduled for Sunday. Why do people blatantly refuse to RSVP? This is the type of party which requires a precise head count. It's at the hockey arena where the local hockey team holds games. I have to pay a set amount for each party-goer, and the number of party-goers (10 in my case) had to be determined in advance. So, in theory, if someone can't come, I could/should find a replacement.
What's really bothering me?, you might ask. Well, it's one particular mother who has been blowing me/us off bigtime. Her son, H, and mine became BEST friends in preschool. The two are a lot alike, and their friendship was enviable.
After preschool I did everything I could to maintain the friendship. I paid H's family top dollar to babysit during some of my work hours. H had younger brothers, and my kid isn't used to siblings. I tried to explain to H's mother that I had no way of teaching my kid to get along with little siblings because we don't have any. I politely gave her permission to do/say whatever she had to. Instead, she showed us the gate.
She's a stay-at-home mother who is homeschooling her kids. After she told us no more babysitting, I still drove to their house whenever I had time to pick up H for playdates.
Before long she put the kibosh on that. She kept putting us off, until finally on the date she had said H could come over, she emailed me saying her homeschooling schedule was just too filled- H couldn't come over to our house after all. That was last summer. I left her alone after that.
But my child doesn't know about all this. He only knows that H is a dear friend whom he hasn't seen in a long time. He wants H invited to his party.
I email H's mother, sheepishly, because i have been banished from their Family. i ask for permission to mail her Son an invitation, saying i will respectfully follow Her wishes if She wants to sever ties.
That was a week ago. She never responded, a dramatic passive-aggressive stab to the jugular.
Yes, i am making the mistake of giving Her power. Part of my problem is that in the past, when i thought She was my friend, i confided in her how hurt i was when other Families had rejected us. (Yes, it's happened before. It's a pattern.)
Why do People do this? What is it about me and my son which They deem inferior, unworthy? Is it the lack of a Man?
It's easy to say that the solution is for me to develop thicker skin and healthy self-esteem which prevails even during adversity. But that doesn't address the problem of a tragically lost friendship. Again. The rejection is not simply of the whirlingbetty and son diad- it is of beautiful, innocent childhood alliances.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
